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Davin doesn’t sleep.
He’s afraid of losing his grip on this tiny spark, this glowing little ember of his magic that’s peeking through. If he loses concentration, it could extinguish into nothing. So Spencer sleeps, head pillowed on Joel’s cardigan where it’s propped against the corner, and Davin paces.
The more he paces, the more the fear starts to fade away, all burned up by that glowing ember. Anger fills the empty space left behind, pulsing hot and insistent in his veins in time with the throbbing of his broken hand. The tips of his fingers are purple and he’s worried about circulation. He’s worried that by the time they get out of here, because they will, that it will be too late. He won’t be able to work on cars anymore, or play his guitar when he’s in the mood, or slide his fingers up into James’ hair like he likes.
But he pushes that to the back of his mind, and he paces. His magic is there, fluttering like baby birds’ wings under his skin and beneath his breastbone, and it’s getting stronger. Davin wills it to get stronger. He imagines his grandmother standing there and telling him that he is a descendant of the Kavanagh clan. The blood of history’s greatest witches runs through his veins and he is strong. He is powerful, and he will fight. His magic cannot be extinguished, not by any means, because Davin won’t let it be.
Isn’t that right, my buachaill draíochta? Yer the youngest an’ strongest of our line, Davin. Ya were born t’lead us all, an’ ya will fight. No silly little charm can keep yer powers at bay. You’ll fight an’ you’ll win, d’ya hear me, boy?
“Yes,” Davin whispers, and he swears his sees a flash of auburn hair out of the corner of his eye. It’s not real, he’s sure. It’s a trick brought on by his hunger and exhaustion, his desperation, perhaps even the head injuries, but he knows that’s what she would say if she were here. It’s what he needs to hear, and she’s right.
Davin closes his eyes and grits his teeth, focusing on that weak little flutter inside of him. He tugs at it, concentrating on the anger and the pain, on just how badly he wants to get out and see his loved ones again, how much he wants to get Spencer back to Joel. His magic gets brighter and brighter and Davin is breathing hard, and suddenly he feels it wash over him. It’s weak, but it’s there. It’s there, and Davin opens his eyes to see the bare, dirty lightbulb above his head glowing dimly.
Because of him.
Davin lets out a deep breath and cuts the light before it can draw any attention, and then he holds out his good hand and pulls. A single screw cuts a line through the water and flies through the air to land neatly in Davin’s palm. It’s long and sturdy, and Davin curls his fingers around with a dark, bitter smirk.
The tables have turned, and they’re going to win.
He doesn’t have any time to wake up Spencer up and tell him before he hears footsteps approaching, but maybe it’s better this way. He has to sell it, after all. Davin puts the screw in his pocket and sits back down against the wall, doing his best to look defeated.
Roman strolls through the door with his bat over one shoulder and a large, thick book under one arm. Spencer wakes up and makes a pained nose, like he’s jarred one of his many injuries, and Davin rests his broken fingers in the cool water to try and get some relief. “Morning, boys! Do you have an answer I’m going to like today, Davin? Or should I put my batting skills to good use?”
He takes a practice swing and mimes looking into the sun, and then grins as he turns to look at them. Davin swallows hard and glares up at him, not daring to look at Spencer’s face.
“Yes,” Davin says quietly, brokenly, like it’s the last thing he ever wants to do. “I’ll do the spell. I’ll take Joel’s magic.”
He’s afraid of losing his grip on this tiny spark, this glowing little ember of his magic that’s peeking through. If he loses concentration, it could extinguish into nothing. So Spencer sleeps, head pillowed on Joel’s cardigan where it’s propped against the corner, and Davin paces.
The more he paces, the more the fear starts to fade away, all burned up by that glowing ember. Anger fills the empty space left behind, pulsing hot and insistent in his veins in time with the throbbing of his broken hand. The tips of his fingers are purple and he’s worried about circulation. He’s worried that by the time they get out of here, because they will, that it will be too late. He won’t be able to work on cars anymore, or play his guitar when he’s in the mood, or slide his fingers up into James’ hair like he likes.
But he pushes that to the back of his mind, and he paces. His magic is there, fluttering like baby birds’ wings under his skin and beneath his breastbone, and it’s getting stronger. Davin wills it to get stronger. He imagines his grandmother standing there and telling him that he is a descendant of the Kavanagh clan. The blood of history’s greatest witches runs through his veins and he is strong. He is powerful, and he will fight. His magic cannot be extinguished, not by any means, because Davin won’t let it be.
Isn’t that right, my buachaill draíochta? Yer the youngest an’ strongest of our line, Davin. Ya were born t’lead us all, an’ ya will fight. No silly little charm can keep yer powers at bay. You’ll fight an’ you’ll win, d’ya hear me, boy?
“Yes,” Davin whispers, and he swears his sees a flash of auburn hair out of the corner of his eye. It’s not real, he’s sure. It’s a trick brought on by his hunger and exhaustion, his desperation, perhaps even the head injuries, but he knows that’s what she would say if she were here. It’s what he needs to hear, and she’s right.
Davin closes his eyes and grits his teeth, focusing on that weak little flutter inside of him. He tugs at it, concentrating on the anger and the pain, on just how badly he wants to get out and see his loved ones again, how much he wants to get Spencer back to Joel. His magic gets brighter and brighter and Davin is breathing hard, and suddenly he feels it wash over him. It’s weak, but it’s there. It’s there, and Davin opens his eyes to see the bare, dirty lightbulb above his head glowing dimly.
Because of him.
Davin lets out a deep breath and cuts the light before it can draw any attention, and then he holds out his good hand and pulls. A single screw cuts a line through the water and flies through the air to land neatly in Davin’s palm. It’s long and sturdy, and Davin curls his fingers around with a dark, bitter smirk.
The tables have turned, and they’re going to win.
He doesn’t have any time to wake up Spencer up and tell him before he hears footsteps approaching, but maybe it’s better this way. He has to sell it, after all. Davin puts the screw in his pocket and sits back down against the wall, doing his best to look defeated.
Roman strolls through the door with his bat over one shoulder and a large, thick book under one arm. Spencer wakes up and makes a pained nose, like he’s jarred one of his many injuries, and Davin rests his broken fingers in the cool water to try and get some relief. “Morning, boys! Do you have an answer I’m going to like today, Davin? Or should I put my batting skills to good use?”
He takes a practice swing and mimes looking into the sun, and then grins as he turns to look at them. Davin swallows hard and glares up at him, not daring to look at Spencer’s face.
“Yes,” Davin says quietly, brokenly, like it’s the last thing he ever wants to do. “I’ll do the spell. I’ll take Joel’s magic.”